


Empty Orchestra

by orphan_account



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Drabble, M/M, at least i think it is, it's words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 04:14:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4550022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's practiced this over and over, but now, it's the real thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty Orchestra

**Author's Note:**

> weird drabble thing i don't know i'm having emotions when i should be doing homework in the middle of the night ugh

Alone he stands, microphone in hand, at the end of a darkened room.

They’re alone, just the two, like he always dreamed it would be.

The music starts. Expectant eyes resting on him and him alone. Watching. Waiting. Chapped lips formed in a grin as though aware of what’s to come.

A love song falls from his mouth, but he barely feels it. As if in a trance, a daydream, something he’s practiced so many times before in anticipation of this, alone in this darkened room.

But now, he isn’t alone. Instead of one, they’re two.

Like he always dreamed it would be.

The baseline pumps through his heart. Over and over he’s rehearsed these lines, a confession written for someone else. But the song is his own, pouring his emotions into the microphone as though the reverb from the machine will touch the other’s heart directly, as though the speakers will scream out _I love you._

They do, that’s the lyrics, practiced so many times before.

His heart pounds when the other’s back straightens somewhat, spinning disco lights painting a rainbow blush across both of their cheeks. Bony elbows resting on grazed knees, chapped lips still in that ecstatic grin, as if it’s the greatest song he’s ever heard.

There’s never been a more beautiful sight. By the flashing lights around the darkened room.

Every note sings its own love story.

 _Do,_ I love you

 _Re,_ I’m so grateful to you

 _Mi,_ let’s be together forever

 _Fa,_ I’ll follow you anywhere

 _So,_ we’ll be unstoppable

 _La,_ nobody can ever replace you

 _Ti,_ my heart is only yours

 _Do,_ I love you

Pop song key change, obligatory long note, would be held forever if it meant seeing that smile always. Those chapped lips on that boyish face.

The lights fade. The music dies.

“Whoa, Choutarou! You really gave that song everything you had – _one song with all my soul_ , huh?”

A chuckle at his own joke.

The microphone is passed over with far more contact that necessary. From both parties.

The music may have died, but love - hopeless, teenage puppy love - is alive.


End file.
